


What I've Got Against What I Left

by Flames_and_Jade



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Casual Sex, Dildos, Eventual Relationships, Falling In Love, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Heavy Sarcasm, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Making Out, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Sassy!Patrick, Smut, TTYG-era, Trauma, not your typical A/B/O
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29148858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade
Summary: Pete sees him from a mosh pit: almost electric as his sticks flew over the drums, laying down a rhythm that was thrumming through his veins alongside his pulse. A wide, militant, explosive grin is on his face as he screams the words, sweaty blonde hair falling into his eyes from under a hat that perches askance on his head.He pushes his way through the crowd, wanting to know more, to know who this kid was who played drums like his life depended on it. Wanting to know everything about him and if he was into Alphas who wore eyeliner and had a deep need to cuddle.OR: Not your typical A/B/O story. Two boys, their friends, some hidden demons and a whole lot of falling in love punctuated by an intensely sassy Patrick.  Contains some mature elements that will be outlined in author's notes.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 22
Kudos: 28





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! So...I know, I know what you're saying. I have like fifty million WIP's. I know! I know! But...this one's held me tight and won't let go, and I actually have a good bit written instead of just the first chapter. I can't promise totally regular updates, but I'm going to shoot for a new chapter every week and a half or so. We will see...I love this this slightly-different A/B/O world I made...and I hope you all will too. As I put in the summary, there will be some mature content that I'll call out in notes, so stay safe my loves. Hope this brings a bit of a smile to your face in the madhouse that is 2021!

_Segregation has sadly always characterized human interactions. Sociologists have bemoaned and praised it, political candidates have promised to end it, and yet it persists._

_Twenty years ago, however...segregation birthed something new. Out of division sprang a place of unity, of acceptance and belonging. First there was an alpha-only club in downtown’s most affluent sector. Then there sprang up a Beta-only piano bar in the industrial section that flourished. Chicago’s sole omega-only artists hangout was next, rife with live music and color. But then something happened that nobody expected. A bar on the south side opened that was a “dynamic free zone.” It was pasted, loud and unambiguously as possible on the wall of the entry that “Asking, discussing or disclosing your own or another’s dynamic is expressly forbidden on the premises and will result in immediate expulsion and banning for life.”_

_The club started slow...but quickly boomed into a riotous success. First it was the scene kids, with their Sex Pistols T-shirts and their purple hair that embraced it. Next it was the goth kids, bringing their spikes and unconditional acceptance. Then kids of all persuasions began to appear, bolstered and emboldened by the promise of a place to just be themselves...and it was over. The exclusive clubs still existed, but were a place for the stuffy ones whose pockets were lined with old money, the bigots that believed in the superiority of a certain dynamic._

_But the spaces where dynamics were left at the door flourished, grew and prospered. They were filled with those people who always fall through the cracks in society--the ones who were not quite the status quo, who were into things that some would scoff at, who wanted things the general populace said they shouldn’t find desirous._

_Aero boys met Aero girls and found what they’d always been searching to find. Girls met boys who craved to be pushed down and taken with fingers and toys and strap-ons. Shy females who longed to sing found an audience who cheered them on, rather than booed them off the stage. Hesitant kids who had always feared the dance floor found themselves swept onto it as they finally let the music consume them. And it didn’t matter who was an Alpha, who was a Beta, who was the rare Omega...in those spaces, they just were._

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The first time Pete saw him, it was from a mosh pit. Just a flash of furious red and hands moving too fast to be anything but a blur. He was mouthing the words and rocking out the hardest of the entire band, with a triumphant, _fierce_ grin on his face. He looked small behind the drum kit, but that could have just been the stage. Besides, who was Pete to judge what counted as small?

Pete was also screaming his heart out, the music pumping through his veins, pushing his heart to beat in time with the drums the kid was playing. His throat was raw, scraped clean like the rest of his insides, and it felt _good_ . The band was killing it tonight--the sheet draped across the stage’s backdrop proclaimed they were _Patterson_ and Pete tried to make a mental note before getting thrown halfway across the floor by some huge guy with a blonde braid. 

The set ended after two more songs, and Pete glimpsed the guy stand up and high five the singer as they disappeared backstage. It was tough going, pushing through the sea of sweaty, hyped bodies towards the stage, but Pete didn’t mind. He made it just as the kid came back on stage, a black ball cap tucked low over his long hair as he began to pack up his drums. Striding over and hoping his hair still looked somewhat presentable, Pete gave him his best smile as he lifted off the top cymbal. 

“Hey, I’m Pete. You guys were amazing!” 

Blue eyes flashed up to his as the drummer looked up, before a snort of derision made its way out as he shook his head. “You know we’re a metalcore band, right? Emo night was yesterday, you missed it.” 

“Every day is an emo day if you try hard enough.” Pete replied, before thinking _what does that even mean??_

“Yeah, okay. Whatever that means. Look I’m kinda busy so--”

“Pete??”

Turning around, Pete saw a mop of curly brown hair and a horribly scruffy beard.

  
  
“Joe Troh!” Dude, what are you doing here?” Pete pulled the taller man in for a hug. “Man, I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“I’m the band’s sound guy. They pay me shit--which basically means beers afterwards--but it’s a fun time.” 

They caught up on the years since they’d seen each other last at an early-morning community college class, but Pete kept itching to turn around and try to pull the drummer into the conversation. By the time he was able to turn around without seeming totally rude, the drums were all packed up and the guy was gone. He turned back to Joe just in time, 

“--You want to come get some beers with us? We usually hit up Boycott afterwards for drinks.” 

Pete brightened up at this--maybe fate hadn’t passed him by after all. “Yeah dude that would be awesome! I’ll go clear out my tab and meet you guys over there.” Drummer guy came back to get one of the towers of drum stacks and Pete took half a step forward. “You want any help with that?” 

“If I wanted help, I’d ask for it. I know how words work.” Drum guy fired back and Pete heard Joe’s chortling laughter from behind him. 

“I see you’ve met Patrick. Don’t worry, he usually doesn’t bite.” 

A tight knot of preppy-looking guys sauntered by the stage, one of them hollering drunkenly _Let’s go find some omega’s to fuck!_ Patrick’s face went from determined to murderous, and he glared daggers at the group until they were out of sight. 

Turning back to Joe, Patrick bit out, “I’ll bite you, Trohman, see if I don’t.” Without waiting for a response, he turned around and walked away with his load, and Joe shook his head. 

“See you in a bit, dude.”

“For sure!” Pete turned away and jumped the short space off the stage and started back to the bar. 

_Patrick_.

~//~

The Boycott Bar was someplace Pete had gone a few times--it was a dynamic-free, 18 and up place on the Northwest side. It was on the opposite side of town from his apartment but he didn’t mind the drive if it met maybe getting to talk to Patrick some more. _Patrick_...short, angry, super cute Patrick. He hummed the chorus of one of their songs as he pulled in and found a parking spot. 

The band was clustered in a back corner, with beers and a pepperoni pizza spread across two tables pulled together. Joe waved him over and Pete plunked into a seat next to him that was coincidentally across from the object of his interest.

“Oh good. He didn’t get lost.” Patrick rolled his eyes and took a sip of the only soda on the table. “I was beginning to hope we were gonna be able to eat in peace.” 

“Nobody’s ever going to love you if you’re always grouchy, Patty-cakes.” The guitarist replied for Pete, and Patrick’s glare was a tangible thing fired across the table.  
  
“Love is a fucking joke, and call me Patty-Cakes one more time and nobody will ever _see you_ again, Conner.” 

A round of _ohhhhhs_ and laughter echoed around the table, at Pete couldn’t help but grin. “Is love tearing you apart again, Patrick?” 

“You’re not clever just because you snuck in a Joy Division quote.” Patrick took a bite of pizza and glared at Pete. “Why are you here, again?” 

“Patrick, dude, ease up. Pete’s okay. Remember the guy I told you saved my ass in that fucking early-as-shit english class last year? This is him.” Joe--ever the conciliatory one--handed Pete a slice on a jagged piece of paper towel. 

“Fine. You get half a pass.” Patrick turned away to launch himself into a conversation on the other end of the table about snare drum tension and Joe nudged Pete. 

“I swear he’s not a total asshole. He’s just....feisty.” 

Pete grinned at him. “Feisty is my thing. So what have you been up to lately…”

The night ended with Pete successfully drawing Patrick into a conversation about the true differences between thrash metal and grindcore. They ended up on the same side of the argument against Joe and the band’s vocalist, and Pete gave himself a mental high five as they stood up to all go their separate ways.

“Glad to know you aren’t a total musical idiot unlike the rest of your band.” He told Patrick as he pulled on his jacket and Patrick smirked. 

“You’re so charming.” He pulled his keys from his pocket and adjusted his cap and headed out towards the parking lot, giving Pete a moment to admire the view from behind as he caught up. 

“Can I be charming again? Maybe over some ramen? I know a really good place.”

“If I want good ramen I make it myself.” Patrick fired back. “Besides, I work a lot, so not much time for random outings.” 

“Patrick--loosen up, go get ramen with the guy!” Joe admonished as he came up beside them. “Friends aren’t like the social equivalent of herpes.”

“Rather not take the chance.” Patrick opened the car door, muttering _see you_ as he slammed the door and turned over the engine. 

“Maybe he is an asshole?” Joe admitted as Patrick pulled out and drove away, not looking back once. Pete shook his head.

“Somehow I’m into it. When do you guys play again?” 

“Friday at The Grinder, down on 16th? Come over, it’d be sweet.” Joe smiled as he fished out his own keys. “Maybe Patrick will verbally abuse you some more.” 

“I sure hope so.” 

~//~ 

Pete went to Friday’s show and then joined them for drinks and pizza afterwards, and then showed up for the next show the following Saturday. That night he volunteered to bring pizza to Boycott and he won brownie points with the rest of the band for bringing a pepperoni _and_ a meat lover’s...both with stuffed crusts. 

Patrick had groused that at least he had gotten something right as he tore into a slice. “Are you trying to be our groupie or something?” he asked with a smirk. 

“Why? Will you make me a t-shirt with your face on it to wear to your gigs?” He fired back, and Patrick snorted.

“No. I’ll put my ass on the scanner and make you wear _that_ on a t-shirt.”

Reaching over Conner to grab a slice, Pete waggled his eyebrows at Patrick, deciding to just go for it. “Don’t get me too excited, Stump-o-matic. We’re in public.”

Patrick just glared, but Pete was pretty sure it was with a significantly lower amount of death mixed in...hey, progress is progress. Ethan came back with two more pitchers of beer and started talking to Pete about the new bass Fender had just released. That kept all of Pete’s attention for the next twenty minutes--except to make puppy eyes at Patrick occasionally. He was genuinely coming to like all the members of _Patterson_. 

“So like, what do you do that you can be our groupie every time we play?” Ethan asked and Pete laughed: this groupie thing was catching on. 

“Marketing. Unless I have meetings, I can basically make my own hours. People don’t care if you launch their website at 8 am or midnight, as long as it shows up when they expect it to the next morning.” 

“So wait, you’re a web designer?” Ethan looked somewhat impressed and Pete shook his head quickly. 

“No, definitely not. I barely use Tumblr coherently. I do like...the writing and word stuff. Coming up with titles and slogans and branding.” 

“Rad.” Ethan poured himself another beer. “When we get big enough to need a website, I know who to call.” 

“I’m your guy!” Pete laughed and caught Patrick staring at him with a look on his face that was hovering somewhere between patronizing and the way you looked at gum on your shoe. He pushed a detailed analysis of the look down--the mere fact that Patrick was looking at him seemed to be a win in his book--and leaned closer to Ethan. 

“So why do you guys always come back to Boycott after gigs? Do they like sponsor you or something?”

“I wish.” Ethan snorted as he took another bite. “Nah, it’s Patrick’s deal. He’ll really only relax in dynamic-free places, and trust me you don’t want to see him wound up. It’s dangerous for your health. Plus, they let us bring in food and I’m pretty sure Patrick convinced the bartender to switch to Mr. Pibb because it’s his favorite.” He shrugged. “And it’s pretty central to where we all live so...it works.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw Patrick pull his phone out of his pocket, frown at it, and then he was walking out the front presumably to be able to hear the person on the other end.

“Is that his girlfriend calling?” He joked, and Conner made a face from across the table.

“We could only hope. He refuses to let anyone nail him down, it’s like being in a band with a revolving door that spits out new person every week.” 

“Dude, I can’t keep up enough for that.” Pete shook his head, “Once in high school, I tried to like dip two parts of me in the waters at a time and let me tell you--” The story made them all laugh, and led to Conner telling them about the time he walked in on his older brother, and then everyone was chiming in with awkward discovery stories.

One by one, band members paid their tabs and left the bar. Pete could see Patrick waving goodbye through the front window as each one left, still on the phone. Who was he talking to, Pete wondered, and for so long? Eventually, though, it was just Ethan and him at the table. 

“Shit man. I gotta head out, got work early tomorrow. If you hand me Patrick’s shit I can take it to him.” 

“Nah, it’s fine.” Pete poured the last of the pitcher into his glass. “I’ll wait for him. Seems like a pretty intense talk. Plus he didn’t finish his slice.” 

“So...you got a thing for him, dude? Or do you just love our band that much?” Ethan elbowed him with a conspiratorial wink as he stood up and shrugged on his jacket. 

“Maybe both! It’s a free country!” Pete grinned, but then sobered. “Is that uh, like...a problem?” 

“Liking the band? No.” Smirking as he pulled on his beanie, Ethan shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. “Patrick...he’s a tough nut to crack. But he’s like way more chill when he gets laid, so more power to you on that one. The whole band would probably adopt you forever if you could keep him happy so he wouldn’t scream about chord progressions as much. But many have tried and burned out on re-entry so…” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Pete gave his best dazzling smile as he waved goodbye. Turning back, he settled his elbows on the table and stared at the nearly-empty pizza box. _Why not_ , he told himself and took the last slice. As he was munching, he noticed Patrick’s keys on the table, and picked them up to examine them further. 

A key that looked like it went to a front door, plus two industrial-looking keys with DO NOT DUPLICATE stamped on them. A silver charm with the batman logo on it, plus a round leather guitar pick holder. Pete struggled with the snap for a minute before it came loose to reveal two guitar picks: one a bright orange dunlop with the requisite turtle, and a black pearlescent one that looked well-used. 

“Thinking of stealing my car?” Patrick’s voice came from his left side, and he started as a pale hand snatched the keys out his hand on the way around the table. Throwing himself into the chair, he picked up his half-eaten piece of pizza and stared at Pete. At least, Pete hoped that was a stare, not a glare. 

“Nah. I can’t ever cheat on my old mazda. She’s a jealous thing.” 

“Why are you still here?” 

“Careful, I might think you’re mean if you keep this up.” Pete grinned at him, and chuckled at the exaggerated way Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“Oh God, what will I do if Pete Wentz thinks I’m mean.” Patrick shook his head as he fastened the clasp on the pick holder. “I repeat, why are you still here?”

Pete shrugged. Why not go for it? “I never get to talk to just you without one of us getting distracted. I was hoping maybe I’d have a shot if I stayed.” 

“And the gift of my words is so prized by you why??” Tearing into his crust like was offensive, Patrick eyed him. 

“I dunno. You’re super cool and way hot and I’m into you?” Pete set his chin on his palm and tried to look adorable, non-threatening and halfway uninterested all at once and gave Patrick his best smile.

Patrick, of course, said nothing...just continued staring at him with ice-blue eyes that Pete suspected saw much more than he let on. Of course, he didn’t know that Pete was the heart-eyes stare champion, so he just fluttered his eyelashes a bit more and stared right back. 

“Fine.” Patrick grabbed his glass and stood. “If we’re going to have a staring contest, I need some more to drink.” He walked over to the bar and exchanged words with the bartender--a tall, thin guy with blue hair--before heading back with his full glass. 

“Can we talk instead of stare?” Pete asked as he folded up the empty pizza box and slid it to the side. “I mean, not that I have anything against staring at you. But I’ll warn you I’ve never lost a _who blinks first_ contest.” 

“This is your party, bangs.” He smirked as he took a sip of his soda. “How about I start. You know that emo is like...on its way out right? Nobody actually likes that haircut.”

“Not true. Brooding fringe is always in style.” Pete laughed at Patrick’s look of disgust and scooted his chair forward a bit. “Fine, I can play the question game. Why are you the drummer when you write all the music for _Patterson_?”

“Easy, I _like_ drumming. I can still show any of them up if I want to, but why spend gigs doing something that isn’t my favorite?” He sat back and crossed his arms. “Pretty dumb question, if you ask me.” 

“Fine, ask one better Lunchbox.” 

“Which bone would you like me to break first if you call me anything but my name again?” 

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Pete grinned. “Why do you make the band come to Boycott after gigs?” 

“I like the decor, and dynamics are fucking bullshit.” Taking a long pull of his Mr. Pibb, Pete had a moment to admire the way his throat worked as he swallowed. “Why are you playing band groupie to try to get to me? There’s plenty of other fish in the sea.” 

“You’re the only ocean for me, Patty-cakes.” Shrugging, Pete scratched at a gouge in the worn wood table top. “I dunno...do I have to have a whole reason prepared? You’re cute, you’re fuckin’ firey, and I like your smile the whole two times I’ve seen it.” Patrick resumed staring at him with a _hmmm_ , and Pete’s mouth decided to run away without him. “You just looked like you were having so much fun that first time I saw you playing the drums. And I wanted to get to know somebody who’s got that much passion about something, and you’re seriously easy on the eyes. The guys are cool, and I like hanging out with you all but that’s a bonus to hoping you’ll let me hang with you one of these days.”

“Is that your goal? _Hanging?”_ Patrick threw ironic air quotes around the word. “Platonic band buddies skipping through Chicago talking about gear and David Bowie?” 

“I mean...that sounds fun for sure--Bowie is definitely in my top five. If that was all you were into, sure, I’d be down. But I’m hoping you’re secretly super attracted to emo fringe and tattoos.” 

The music shut off, and Pete realized that they were nearing closing time. Patrick didn’t look at him as they gathered up the dirty napkins and pizza boxes, stacking the glasses and taking them to the bar and throwing the trash into the big bin by the door. But his eyes were narrowed and skeptical as he stepped into the cold through the front door as Pete held it open, and he felt his heart tumble down to his shoes. He had swung for the fence...but he was pretty sure that he’d missed the ball entirely. 

Patrick turned to look at him, and judging off the collected data of the last few weeks, Pete was pretty sure he was about to get punched. “Look, I--” He started to try to say something that would gloss over his total explosion of feelings at the table and might convince Patrick to not sock him in the face. But that seemed to be a lost cause as Patrick stepped forward and pushed him bodily against the building’s creaking wood shingles and...kissed him _hard_. 

He was pretty sure he moaned a bit as Patrick’s hips held him solidly, one hand fisted into his shirt and the other twisted into the hair at the nape of his neck. But _fuck_ if his mouth wasn’t sweet and warm and _amazing._ He lifted his hand, fingers grazing the softness of Patrick’s neck…

And his hand was caught with bruising force and slammed against the wall. He went stiff with the shock of it, but Patrick didn’t stop, didn’t do anything beyond hold his hand there and kiss him like he was going to die if their lips parted. Being a wise man, Pete didn’t move, didn’t protest... he kept his other hand slack next to his side and concentrated on kissing Patrick back with equal dedication. 

He was about to pull away to gasp for a quick breath when Patrick abruptly let go and shoved off him roughly as he stepped back. There was a dirty, mischievous twist to his wet lips as he grinned at Pete and zipped up his coat. 

  
“See you Tuesday, Wentz.” He winked--actually fucking _winked_ \--as he turned away and walked towards his car, and Pete was pretty sure he could hear him fucking whistling. 

Pete just stood there and watched his car grind to life and him drive out of the lot, lips tingling where Patrick had bitten him with surprising gentleness for the ferocity of the rest of the kiss. He shook his head once the glow of his tail lights disappeared around the corner and rubbed a hand over his face. 

Tuesday couldn’t come fast enough. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes about this world:  
> \- 30% of the population are Alphas, 65% are Betas. Omegas are a very small portion of the populace at 5%, with a 30/70 split between male and female. 
> 
> \- Dynamic roles are largely a societal construct. It's illegal to show preference or discriminate on the basis of dynamic, but it still happens. Generalizations are usually supported by facts: most CEO's are Alphas, etc. But the outliers exist and aren't unfairly oppressed. Omegas are largely ignored by most of society. They’re seen as almost an evolutionary leftover, and are largely fetishized and objects of sexual jokes.
> 
> \- Scent is only a factor if someone is in heat. If an individual is on suppressants, they don't exude any scent, though they can still smell others who are in heat.
> 
> \- Suppressants aren't widely used: none exist for Alpha's, only about 50% of Beta's use them. Omega use of suppressants is not documented since (again), they're such a small part of the population.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves! Thanks so much to all who read/commented on the last chapters! I'm so excited you're on this ride with me! This chapter is more getting to know each other, loads of Patrick Sass, and some fun. Hope you enjoy! I'll be attempting to post updates every friday/saturday...see if I can actually keep to a schedule ;) Please drop me a comment and tell me what you think, and enjoy!

“Dude. I think I found my soulmate.”  
  


Dropping into the empty chair next to Ryan Ross, the firm’s best web developer and part-time wedding photographer, Pete spun in a lazy circle and thought about Patrick’s mouth.

  
“Oh good. Who’s the lucky girl? Guy? Did you finally bag another alpha who’s just as into eyeliner as you are?”  
  


“You say that like you’re not equally into guyliner, Ry.” Pete grinned at the dingy ceiling tiles as he spun, before sticking a foot onto the desk and rolling his head to look at his best work friend. “No seriously. He’s amazing. You know that band I was telling you about, Patterson? He’s their drummer, and I started hanging out with them after gigs. He’s like...the most electric person ever. He’s got more spunk than a battery wall, swear I’ve never seen someone so fuckin’ feisty.”  
  


“Does said electric drummer have a name?” Ryan asked, already turned back to his computer and tapping away at that totally incomprehensible black window rife with scrolling walls of white code.  
  


“Patrick.” Pete oozed, beginning to spin again. “He’s like...god, I think he’s probably straight-up insulted me like ten times at least, he’s just so good at firing back without missing a beat. He loves David Bowie, and we agree on what defines metalcore, and he likes pizza and drinks only Mr. Pibb, which is kinda weird I agree, but he also has the most incredible blue eyes, dude. They’re like...the color of fuckin’ lilacs, I swear. I had to look up a ton of different blue flowers ‘till I found some that were the right color, but oh my God none of that compares to his lips. He’s got these fucking incredible lips, so soft and God he’s incredible at kissing, I swear. I can’t even imagine how good he’d be at dick--”

  
“The next word out of your mouth better not be sucking, Wentz.” Kendall, their manager, glared as Pete spun around, banging his knee on Ryan’s chair in the process. “Ross, why do you encourage him, you’re just as bad sometimes I swear.”  
  


Ryan, pulling off the huge pair of headphones that were his habitual companions, smirked up at the sudden appearance of their boss. “I just leave one ear off so I can kinda hear if he’s still going, and turn the music up on the other one. That way I can block him out...it works pretty good, actually.”  
  


“I seriously need new friends.” Pete groused, and Kendall eyed him.  
  


“How about you go make friends with the folks in conference room two who have been waiting ten minutes for you to show up to help them with their restaurant launch? That is, if you’re not too busy regaling Ross here with your tales of sexual conquest?”  
  


“Shit, that is this morning! I knew it!” Pete darted up in a flurry of loose-around-the-neck tie and notebook pages and darted off, and Kendall shook his head.  
  


“I’ll keep your technique in mind, Ross.” He looked down, but Ryan had already returned his headphones to their place and was tapping out yet another line of code.  
  


~//~  
  
  


Tuesday’s show was particularly electric. Pete had now seen enough Patterson shows to have a pretty good understanding of the band’s highs and lows, and they were truly in rare form tonight. Pete knew he’d be hoarse later from screaming along with them, but he didn’t care. Patrick’s hands were just a blur as he drummed, the grin on his face dark and almost manic, like he was daring the music to keep up with him. Pete couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

  
  
After the show, Patrick actually let him help packing up the drum kit, and Pete privately took that as a sign that things were getting serious. Sweat darkened Patrick’s blonde hair and the back of his shirt was damp with it, which made inappropriate thoughts dance around Pete’s brain as he walked behind him carrying the snare stand.  
  


  
As they were loading the gear into the back of the van, a guy in a gaudily bedazzled white shirt with oversized plackets sauntered over. “Hey, you guys just finished up, yes?”

  
  
“Yeah.” Patrick answered, bending over to pick up the kick drum. “We’re Patterson, what’s up?”

  
  
“I liked your set, it was very energetic.” The man grinned with a flash of gold teeth, and Pete wondered if this guy was for real, or if he was just impersonating a sleezeball. “My name is Morozov, I run a small record outfit, nothing too much but we specialize in the harder sounds.” He held out a bright white, glossy business card to each of them.

  
  
Patrick took it and tucked it into his pocket without looking at it. “I’ll talk to the rest of the guys about it, Mr. Morozov. Our singer Conner will probably be the one to give you a call, he handles the business side of things.”

  
  
“Ah, he is your Alpha, yes? The man in charge?”

  
  
Something flashed in Patrick’s eyes as he drew himself up. Taking the card from his pocket, he tore it in half and threw it on the wet alley asphalt, stepping on top of one half and making a show of grinding his heel on it without breaking eye contact.

  
  
“Take your bullshit dynamic prejudices somewhere else, slimeball. We don’t fuck around with that shit, especially not for knockoff mobsters peddling fake record deals.” His jaw ground together and Pete felt a shiver of concern down his spine at the look on Patrick’s face. Tonight was not the night he wanted to finally see what the inside of a Chicago jail cell looked like.

  
  
“Yeah, umm. Thanks for your interest, but we’ve got to finish packing up for the next group.” He grabbed Patrick’s arm and tugged. At first, nothing happened, Patrick’s body seemed rooted to the ground by the force of the daggers he was glaring at the guy. But then, he relented, just enough for Pete to pull him away as Morozov shrugged and turned to walk back towards the line of parked cars. “Patrick, dude. He’s gone, relax.”

  
  
Patrick continued to glare daggers at the man’s back until he ambled out of sight, before throwing off Pete’s arm and storming back inside. Pete followed the stream of invective, shaking his head once again at the amount of fire that was contained inside one short, pale drummer.

  
  
“--Fucking shit-talking pieces of trash, what, only Alphas can sing, only Alphas can be good at running things? Should have bashed his teeth in, then he’d see that--”

  
  
“--Then we would both be in jail, you for assault and me for defending your honor.” Pete picked up the stool and the other snare. “Some people are idiots, let it go dude.”

  
  
Patrick glared as he picked up the next stack of drums. “I’m not a princess who needs a knight in shining armor to defend my honor, asswipe. I could have rearranged his face just fine myself.”

  
  
“Hey, I’m not doubting that, and trust me nobody on the planet would ever think you’re a princess.” Pete held out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Just saying...I don’t look good in orange, and I couldn’t have my straightener in prison.”

  
  
“Oh God, what would you do then??” Patrick rolled his eyes. “So you’re saying your hair doesn’t just look like that? You put effort into making this look happen?” With a huff, Patrick picked up the cymbal stands and headed back out towards the van.

  
  
Pete was forestalled from grabbing a load himself by Jonathan, asking if he could help him fit the mesh grill back on one of the amps that had gotten jostled loose. Pete spent a quick moment fiddling with it while the bass player pushed the panel down...and it snapped into place. They high-fived their technical prowess and then Pete was back to grabbing Patrick’s drumming stool and carrying it down the passageway.

  
  
Someone had propped the door open, so he stepped into the cool night air and stopped. Patrick was standing at the back of the van, staring out the windshield and lost in a different world.

  
  
“Hey, lunchbox--” At the words, Patrick yelped and jumped half a foot in the air, coming down to land with a fist cocked back and his knees bent like he was in a boxing ring. His eyes were wide and filled with something Pete thought looked like fear. “Hey, hey...it’s okay! It’s just me, what were you--”

  
  
“--Don’t fucking sneak up on me like that, you fuckstick.” Patrick straightened his knees and glared, taking the stool from Pete and shoving it roughly into the van. “Swear to God, I’m not the one you should be practicing your ninja skills on, motherfucker.”

  
  
“Okay, okay…” Pete scratched at the back of his neck, confused. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  
  
“You almost got blood all over that dumb t-shirt.” Patrick groused as he headed back into the venue, and Pete decided to let the weirdness that had just happened go.

  
  
“Hey, I carefully considered whether I wanted to wear a all-black shirt or a striped black shirt tonight, I’ll have you know.” Pete grinned. “I decided to go crazy and wear my only white one. Mix it up, so I appreciate you leaving it unbloodied.”

  
  
Patrick hummed as he took the last snare, before blatantly running his eyes over Pete’s body. When their eyes met, he smirked. “White was a good choice. Brings out your eyes.”

  
  
“Holy shit, was that a complement?” Pete gasped as he scrambled to catch up. “A real, true-blue Patrick complement?”

  
  
“If you want it to be.”

“Oh, I want it to be. Keep saying nice things to me and I might let you kiss me again.” Pete said the last bit as he leaned close, breath skittering off the shell of Patrick’s ear.

  
  
“Let me? You get a say in this now?” The grin Patrick gave him was full of heat and something dirtily salacious. “Keep playing those cards, Wentz. See where they take you.”

  
  
Pete couldn’t help but pinch himself as he drove to Boycott’s with the pizzas, hoping this was the start. That this was when Patrick let him in, or at least gave him a chance.

  
The night was full of laughter and jokes as always, though the ones Patrick made had a sexy cast to them that made his insides tremble. He swore Patrick was biting his lower lip on purpose when they caught each other’s eyes from across the table. As always, he learned interesting trivia facts about the band--Conner was originally from tiny town in Michigan, Ethan’s dad was a stock broker who had no time for his children. Patrick was 20, hence the Mr. Pibb, and Joe was saving up for an engagement ring for his girlfriend Marie. Eventually, they waved goodbye to the rest of the guys, and it was just the two of them staring at each other across the crumb-strewn table.

  
“So...is this what we do now? Close out the night with scintillating conversation?” Patrick eyed him as he took a sip of his soda, and Pete shrugged.

  
  
“If that’s what you want to call it. I call it my favorite part of the night, ‘cause I get you all to myself.”

  
  
“Oh right. Because I’m the best company you’ve ever found, right? A fountain of interesting facts. Did you know that whales can swim at speeds up to 20mph? And sperm whales aren’t actually full of cum, contrary to popular opinion?”

  
“Oh, now we’re on to trivia, huh?” Pete grinned. “I can do this all day. Humans are 90% water, and guys expel anywhere between one and a quarter to five milliliters of semen every time they ejaculate.” Patrick just looked at him with a bored expression and he shook his head. “Come on, Patty-cakes. What can I do to impress you? If semen facts aren’t the thing, I’m pretty much at the end of my rope.”

“How about you just tell me your life story in five minutes or less and we go from there?” Patrick took another sip of soda and leaned forward. “Extra credit if you grew up in Chicago.”

  
“Extra credit on lock!” Pete crowed, taking a bite of cold pizza and matching Patrick’s posture. Leaning forward, he munched contemplatively. “Well, I was born in Evanston, I’m the oldest, my brother and sister are both wildly successful and have grown out of their emo phase. I went to Glenbrook South, got a soccer scholarship to DePaul. Started out doing Political Science but I realized lying to people to get votes isn’t really my thing so I switched to marketing. Ended up getting a job at Hangar 12 and it’s pretty neat, let’s me keep my own hours mostly. I play around on the bass sometimes, I love pizza, The Black Album is my favorite record, and I’ve been told I’m not a typical Alpha.”

Patrick gave him a glare. “It’s a dynamic free bar, asshole.”

“Right, my bad.” Pete tried to look chagrined. “Well, don’t leave me hanging. Your turn.”

“Well, I know how to follow simple directions and bar rules. I also went to Glenbrook South, my parents split when I was 13, I have an older brother and sister who are also very responsible. I work at Best Buy which is basically the worst job in the world, and I play music pretty much every waking hour of the day I’m not in that soul-sucking blue-and-yellow hellhole. I have never and will never play sports, my mom makes me her secret spaghetti every year for my birthday and I like chocolate cake, and Ride the Lightning is definitely Metallica’s best album.”

Pete shook his head. “You’re definitely wrong on that, but we’ll come back to it. When were you at Glenbrook, I swear I never saw you! I definitely would have remembered.” That earned him another eye roll from his crush.

“2005-2008. I went to Evergreen for freshman year, but then we moved.”

“Ahh. I graduated 2004...just missed you.” He made a mournful face, but then brightened up. “But hey, fate intervened! I was supposed to meet you and it happened!”

“Not sure about that…” Patrick looked doubtful but Pete was heartened by the tiniest twist of a smile on his lips.

“Sure we were.” Pete leaned forward again. “C’mon, ‘Trick. What do I have to do to for you to give me a chance? I’m obviously into self-hatred by how much I keep throwing myself at you, but I don’t want be a stalker.”

“Mmmm...come outside with me.” Patrick stood and once again the music cut off right on cue. Pete was starting to wonder if the bartender was looking for some sort of cue, but he shook it off when he saw the time. They cleaned the tables up, and he once again held the door open for Patrick as they headed out into the cold night air.

He was waiting for Patrick to push him against the wall again, or maybe to lead him to the darkness of the alley for a covert makeout session. But instead, Patrick headed towards the parking lot, before stopping to look at Pete with a quizzical expression.

“Which one is yours?”

“Mine?”

“Your car, idiot. Unless you rode a scooter here, then deal’s off.”

“Oh, uh, that one, the grey mazda.” He pointed and Patrick smirked and ambled over, standing by the driver’s door like he was trying to escort Pete to his own vehicle. Pretty sure the confusion was written all over his face, Pete unlocked it and stood awkwardly when Patrick opened the door. “Are you uh, just walking me to my car? Is that the plan?”

“Turn the car on and find out.” Patrick grinned, a flash of white teeth in the parking lot gloom making him doubt for a moment what was really going on here...but he shrugged and slid in, tiny engine rattling to life and automatically turned the heat up to try to bring some warmth to the frigid space. “Dancing Queen” was playing from the shitty stereo, he noted distantly, as Patrick came around the car door, climbed onto his lap and shut it behind him.

“Uhhh.” Pete stayed still as Patrick pulled the lever and laid the back of the seat down until Pete was below the level of the windows. “Are you going to drug me and cut out my kidneys?”

“Maybe if you’re lucky.” Patrick whispered as he settled over Pete’s hips and sealed their lips together.

Part of Pete’s mind wondered why they were making out in his car like teenagers...but he pushed that away when the first strains of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You” came on and Patrick’s tongue dipped out to run across the seam of his lips.

He moaned as Patrick twisted one hand into his hair, tilting his head back so that he could press a searing line of kisses down Pete’s neck. “Can--’Trick, I want to touch you, please.” He remembered his aborted attempt last time that had ended in a stinging hand, but he needed to touch him somewhere.

“Just don’t pull my hair, or touch my neck.” Patrick mumbled as he sucked with a hint of teeth Pete’s earlobe into his mouth and for a moment, Pete wasn’t sure that he was capable of doing anything than being a boneless pile of mush. But then Patrick’s mouth was back on his: clever, clever tongue and teasing nips and God. He brought his hands up gently to caress the soft skin just above his pants, skimming beneath his t-shirt, and the way Patrick hummed into his mouth seemed like a good sign. One of Patrick’s fingers found his nipple and pinched, and he couldn’t help but yelp and roll his hips, the shock of pain going straight to his cock. Patrick laughed, low and dirty as he pulled away to grin down at him. “Liked that, huh?” He ran his nail over it again and ground down at the same time, rubbing against each other through an unforgivable number of layers of denim and cotton. Pete felt himself panting as Patrick kept his rhythm, grinding down while demanding every part of Pete’s mouth for himself. Pete slid his hands up Patrick’s back, miles of soft skin that he wanted to lick and kiss and bite, gasping against his mouth.

“Holy shit--” he gasped out as Patrick pulled the neck of his shirt wide to bite into the meat of his shoulder as he rolled his hips deeply, cocks both very interested in the proceedings. “You’re--you have a baby’s arm hidden in there, Rickster?”

“Maybe.” Patrick grinned down at him, all bright eyes and wet, red mouth. “Maybe I’ll let you see for yourself sometime.”

“Mmmm.” Gasping as Patrick pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, he arched his back, trying to get closer and Patrick laughed, low and dirty. “Maybe--in a bed? Like mine?”

“Maybe.” He whispered, ducking down to capture Pete’s mouth for one last searing kiss, all biting and sucking and tongue until Pete was sure he was seeing stars behind his eyelids. Then...Patrick was sitting up, one hand on the door handle as he pushed it open and climbed out. Pete just laid there for a moment, wondering what the hell had just happened.

With a sardonic grin, Patrick reached down to pull the lever that brought his seat back upright, and he felt the cold air blast him in the face like a thunderclap.

“Drive safe, Wentz. See you Wednesday.”

Once again, Patrick winked and Pete swore that for a second he could see devil’s horns peeking through the dark knit beanie as he shut the door and sauntered away. He followed Patrick’s form until he climbed into his beat up Camry and pulled away....and then he looked down at the very interested cock that was currently trying to climb out of his jeans and let his head flop back against the headrest as he groaned.

Patrick was going to be the death of him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading and leaving me comments and kudos!!! Enjoy the next step of the sass-fueled romance <3 Please leave me a comment, this story is my new baby and I'm a bit obsessed...so I'd love to know what you think!!

That shithead was fucking ghosting him!

Pete supposed he should be more offended than he was--he hadn’t been stood up like this since 9th grade when Susie Jenkins didn’t show up to smoke a joint under the maple tree with him after school. 

Since he _still_ didn’t have Patrick’s number (not for lack of trying, but it felt like cheating to ask Joe to give it to him), he couldn’t text him. He had been counting down the days between Tuesday and Saturday, like a dog looking at a bone through a glass window. But when he burst into the bar late-- _stupid meetings!_ \--there had been someone else behind the drum kit. A guy with a beard and shaggy brown hair was laying down the beat in a pretty lackluster manner, if you asked him. Maybe he was biased, but the show just didn’t seem as on fire without the diminutive drummer rocking like the sun was going to burn out at the end of the show. Patrick’s energy behind the drums was _electric,_ it made fire burn through his veins and his pulse feel like it was beating along...this guy was just _fine._

He tried to be casual as he helped them pack up like always...the drummer’s name was Spencer, and he had accepted Pete’s offer with a shrug and no delightful banter. When Pete asked, the guy had given the most blase answer ever: Patrick had texted him Thursday night and asked if he could fill in for him, and Spencer had agreed. That was it. 

Of course, this wasn’t enough for Pete. Spencer hadn’t come back to Boycott’s, so over beers and pizza, he had leaned over the table to grab a slice and tried to ask Conner without shouting out to the whole table. 

Conner had just shrugged as he grabbed his own slice. “He does this sometimes. Never leaves us in the lurch, which we all appreciate. It’s just a thing, he’s got some health stuff or something, I don’t know. He doesn’t go into it and I don’t ask, I’ve got a sensitive stomach.” 

Joe had rolled his eyes and told a story of Conner, a paper bag, and a lizard and Pete had laughed so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. But...the question nagged. Patrick had said _see you Saturday_ , he had basically made a promise laced with kisses that tasted of soft-drin syrup. And for all of Pete’s exhaustive study of Patrick over the last month...he didn’t seem like someone who broke promises. What if Patrick had cancer? What if he had IBS and had to stay home and sit on the shitter for a couple days? What if he had been hit by a car and didn’t want them to see he had to have his hand amputated?! His mind continued to make up worse and very unlikely possibilities as he climbed into his cold car and rubbed his hands together in the frozen air. It was fine, Patrick just couldn’t make it. Not a big deal. 

He made sure to be early to Thursday’s show. He sat in the back of the bar, sipping on water with his foot tapping like a jackhammer as he stared at the back door, willing them to show up. When Patrick appeared, backing through the door holding a tower of drums, he hadn’t been able to help his yelp of joy. Scampering over to hold the door open, he hadn’t even tried to hold back from raining questions on his crush. Patrick had just shrugged as he set down the stack and swept gossamer-soft strawberry-blonde hair back behind his ear as he resettled his cap.

“I caught a stomach bug from somewhere. I was puking for two days and then I had to pick up shifts for the people who had covered for me.” He didn’t give Pete much time to do anything but trail him back to the van, saying hi to the guys and grabbing two guitar cases from Joe. He helped them set up and then Patrick was in his _serious rehearsal mood_ as Pete called it, and had shooed Pete away like a mother hen presiding over a nest full of eggs. 

The show was amazing--explosive sound and basslines that melted with the drums to wash over them like wave after wave of concussive melody. It seemed like Patrick shone brighter under the lights--he was all flourishes and ecstatic grins and hair darkening with sweat as he moved his head to the beat. He was screaming the songs he had written like he had a microphone, and Pete was momentarily captured with the mental image of Patrick singing into a microphone with a guitar at his hips. He would be incredible, he was sure of it...but Patrick would be incredible _anywhere,_ he decided...he’d light the room up from any part he played. 

Joe had brought the pizza’s this time, so he had maneuvered himself to sit next to Patrick when they got to Boycott’s, elbows occasionally brushing as they all laughed and talked and ate the night away. Pete waited until Patrick had tucked away two slices of pepperoni before nudging him with his shoulder. 

“So I was wondering. Just in case you ever need someone to ask about Kurt Vonnegut’s books or like...to bring you smoothies, can I have your number?”

“ _Slaughterhouse Five_ is overrated.” Patrick said before taking a long pull of Root Beer and Pete could feel his eyebrows attempting to burrow under his carefully-straightened fringe. 

“ _What_? Are you for real right now? I--”

  
“ _Jailbird_ is his best book. Using an unreliable narrator makes it a hundred times more interesting than _Slaughterhouse.”_ Patrick looked at him steadily, daring him to disagree and Pete felt his jaw take a trip towards the floor. 

“...I actually haven’t read that one.” He tipped his head to look at Patrick, settling it on his palm. “You’re putting me to shame, Patty-cakes. Nobody has ever out-Vonnegut-ed me.” 

“That’s not a word.” Patrick glared at the nickname, but he reached down to grab at the pocket of Pete’s hoodie that was hanging between them. Pulling Pete’s brand-new Razr from the pocket, he flipped it open and tapped at the keys before shutting it and holding it out. 

  
“I called myself. Just don’t expect me to always answer right away like, ever.” 

Pete flipped the phone open and saw the one-second call to a 872 area code. “Why do you have a 872 number?” 

“Moved, remember? I grew up in Morgan Park.” 

“Right.” Pete felt chagrined for not remembering, but he saved the number as _Patrickkkkk <3<3<3 _and gave the brightest, most blinding smile he could. “Thanks, ‘Trick. I hope you’re ready for tons of poorly-spelled text messages.” 

“If you make my phone bill go up, I will go Al Capone on your ass and get my money.” 

“I can see ol’ Al being a bottom, fair. You never know what somebody’s into.” He waggled his eyebrows in what he hoped was a suggestive way at Patrick and enjoyed it when he choked on his crust. He didn’t have a chance to make any other observations about the mobster's sexual preferences before Conner demanded everyone’s attention as he read a text from a girl he had met last show. This led to a spirited debate on whether he should reply immediately or make her sweat a little...and Pete felt the thrum of _togetherness_ in his veins. He was grateful, so fucking grateful, for this little troupe of people who had somehow, inexplicably become real friends. 

Patrick had gotten up to take a phone call, but not before whispering in Pete’s ear _don’t leave_ as he stood up. Joe had stayed after everyone else had left, finishing off the last slice and regaling Pete with the story of how he had met Marie. 

“--And that’s how I found out that almond milk stains silk way worse than soymilk, and the rest is history!” 

“That’s a hell of a saga.” Pete laughed as Patrick came back, sliding his phone into his pocket as he threw himself back in his chair. “I guess you can find love everywhere, though, right?” 

“True, true.” Joe nodded sagely, before looking between the two of them and grinning. “Speaking of, it’s time for me to make a graceful exit and leave you to it.” 

“No, it’s fine.” Patrick shook his head, and his hair caught the neon light of the budweiser sign just right to make it look like spun gold. “We’re gonna head out too.” 

“We are?” Pete squeaked, trying to not let the heartbreak show on his face as Patrick began collecting up cups and stacking plates. But Patrick just winked at him and he felt hope kindle in his chest that the crafty little guy had a plan that involved horizontal surfaces and gasping kisses. Once everything was clean, they made their way outside to the crisp, moonless night. Joe looked like he was going to say something, but Pete barely caught the look Patrick threw his way, and Joe held his hands up in defeat. 

“Alright, well. You kids have fun. Make good decisions.” He turned to head towards his car on the far side of the lot, and Pete looked at Patrick with uncertainty. 

“So…” 

“So, I’ll follow you to your place?” Patrick gave him a coy smile and Pete felt his heart leap to his throat. “Unless I’m interpreting your Al Capone comment wrong and you aren’t a bottom. Because I sure as shit am _not_.” 

Shrugging, Pete looked at Patrick from under his lashes, hoping it looked sexy but unassuming. “I’ll do pretty much anything, Patty-cakes. As long as it’s with you.” 

Patrick just waggled his eyebrows and pushed him playfully towards his car. “Then get going,” he teased as he headed towards his car, and Pete almost stabbed himself with his own keys trying to unlock his car door. The drive home was just as cold as always--he never gave the pathetic engine enough of a chance to warm up...but he didn’t feel it. He was thrumming with _finally_ and the thought of kissing Patrick again, of pushing his shirt off and--

He swerved a bit as he drifted, lost in thought, and shook himself as he turned on the turn signal. _Keep it together, Wentz. You won’t get laid if you’re dead from a car wreck right outside your own damn apartment._ Pulling into the parking lot, he pulled into an open spot and basically jumped from his own car, feeling like time was slowing as Patrick pulled in next to him and slipped smoothly from his own vehicle. 

“Lead the way.” He smirked and Pete went for it: he reached out and took Patrick’s hand, pulling him along the frozen sidewalk and marveling at the electric feeling of holding his hand.

It seemed like it took a small miracle to get to the second floor and unlock the door, but then they were through and his fumbling hand found the light switch. “Uh, come on in. It’s not the cleanest but--”

The messy apartment was plunged into shadow as Patrick slapped the switch and kicked the door shut, turning Pete and pressing him against it. “I’m not here for the decor,” he breathed, lips inches from Pete’s. He pressed their bodies flush, and Pete couldn’t help the whimper that escaped his own lips as Patrick pressed his hard-on against Pete’s own rapidly-stiffening cock. He saw Patrick’s lips twist in a self-satisfied, knowing smirk before his mouth was being _plundered_. Patrick held nothing back, taking Pete’s face in his hands and digging his fingers into his hair as tongues battled and Pete felt like he was simultaneously melting and combusting. 

“Bed.” Patrick panted between frenzied kisses, and Pete tried to nod as he pushed off from the door, aiming them at his bedroom door. Tripping, stumbling they made their way through the dark apartment, Patrick nipping at his neck as Pete ran his hands up his back across miles of soft skin. But then Pete was being pushed away, pushed _back_ and _falling..._ onto his own bed, landing with a small bounce as Patrick grinned down at him. “Gonna fuck you so good,” he promised, kicking off his shoes and starting to undo his belt. Pete couldn’t find words past the sudden glee welling up in his stomach, so he just kicked his chucks off and scooted back as he yanked his shirt over his head. 

With a growl, Patrick was on him, fingers tracing over the black whorls and patterns inked into his skin. Scrabbling at his belt, Pete tried to push his own pants off but Patrick’s hand was there, yanking with enough force that he momentarily thought the ancient denim was just going to rip in half. But then they were gone and Patrick was pushing up to pull his own shirt off, and Pete’s hands went to the button on his jeans, trying to undo it as he not-so-accidentally pressed the heel of his hand against the cock straining through Patrick’s pants. Patrick hissed, biting at his nipple as he fumbled along with Pete, getting them down and off and then there was miles of soft, pale, warm flesh pressed against him. 

Pete couldn’t help the sigh of contentment as Patrick nuzzled at his neck, grinding down and laughing at the way he gasped. His fingers slid down Patrick’s sides, his right hand riding the notches of his spine down, down…his left slid into Patrick’s boxers, tips brushing the silken length of it. Pete grinned at the ceiling as he felt the tiny shiver that worked its way down Patrick’s body as he stroked him gently, fingers dancing lightly against the tip. 

But then--suddenly hands were wrapped around his wrist, pinning them to the bed above his head. Patrick pulled away from where he was most likely sucking a hickey on his neck and grinned down at him with a devilish glint in his eyes. Before Pete could think of something snarky to say, Patrick’s lips were pressed to his, their teeth clacking together as his mouth was plumbed and taken, bright points of pain when Patrick nipped at his bottom lip making him arch up in want. 

He briefly wondered where a 20 year old had learned to be so fucking sexy...but that was gone when Patrick stopped at the waistband of his boxers, looking up with a flush on his cheeks and kissed-raw lips the color of spilled wine. But instead of pulling them down, Patrick scooted off him, standing and shucking off his clothing until he too was down to his boxers. Pete could’t help but lick his lips at the miles of creamy white skin that looked soft as velvet and was just begging to be traced with his tongue. 

Patrick climbed back onto the bed and settled against the wall, bunching Pete’s pillows up behind him. “Show me what you’ve got, Wentz.” He grinned and pushed down his boxers, a frankly _ridiculous_ cock leaping free of the offending cloth. Pete’s mouth watered at the sight--God, yes, fucking _yes_. He clambered over, all elbows and knees to pull the boxers down all the way, nuzzling at Patrick’s cock with his nose and looking up coyly. 

“I’ve been told that I have this medical condition.” 

One golden eyebrow cocked with wry interest. “Go on.”

“Well…” Pete lapped delicately at the head, tasting the bead of fluid gathered at the tip. “Apparently I have like, _no_ gag reflex. It can be really problematic when I’m trying to eat a footlong corndog.” 

“You poor thing.” Patrick growled, hand fisting into Pete’s hair. “I’ll be sure to take such a disadvantage into account when I give you a grade.” 

“Mmm...There’s going to be a grade?” He couldn’t help but smirk when he circled the ridged head of Patrick’s cock again with his tongue. “Well, then I’ll have to really give it all I’ve got, huh?” 

He didn’t wait for Patrick’s answer, sucking his cock down and letting the weight of it press against his tongue. A moan escaped as he lapped down-- _God_ he tasted fucking delicious--and soon he had his nose nudging against the trimmed curls at the base of Patrick’s cock.

Pulling off with a gasp, he was gratified when Patrick scooted down a bit, trying to position himself to be closer, as close as he could be. “Jesus, you weren’t fucking kidding--” Patrick’s exclamation was lost to a melodic cry that Pete was pretty sure was a perfect high _E_ tone. He applied himself with relish, tongue pressed to the sensitive underside as he bobbed his head and tried to give the blow job of his fucking life. 

Pale hands were in his hair, thumbs tight against his cheekbones and he moaned himself at the way he was gently thrusting into his mouth. It felt dirty and so fucking hot and he couldn’t help but almost want to forego the fucking and just make Patrick come like this. They had all night, after all. He moved his right hand from where it was loosely wrapped around Patrick’s balls, wet with his own spit, and skated them to flutter gently against his hole. Just the suggestion of teasing intent as he humped his own throbbing cock against the mattress…suddenly he was being yanked by the hair, knees shoving him away as Patrick shouted out a strangled curse _._

He rolled to a stop and looked up at Patrick with incredulous disbelief. “What the hell was that?” He felt his brows drifting down into a glare as he rubbed at his sore scalp. “You could have just said _no_ or something, _shit!_ ” 

“That _was_ me saying no.” He spat back, and Patrick’s face was a bizarre mix of panic, fury and contrition that Pete was still too confused and half-turned on to unpack. “I told you--not a bottom. Don’t touch.” He mumbled as he pushed Pete back onto his back and pulled at his boxers, pushing them down and licking a stripe up his cock. His face was back to its normal intense look, lips pouting saucily as he mouthed at Pete, and he couldn’t help but admit that he had lips made for sucking dick. 

That was confirmed as Patrick took his cock deep, devouring it like he was hungry, like Pete’s cock was coated in an antidote to some mysterious poison. The ache in his scalp was quickly overshadowed by the frankly _incredible_ things Patrick could do with his tongue, and he decided to let bygones be bygones and just write it up to a misunderstanding. He kept his hands by his sides, clenching at the sheets and tried not to thrust too jarringly into Patrick’s mouth. 

“I’m--’Trick, stop, I’m gonna--” He gasped, desperately trying to warn him off as he approached the precipice. “I--”

Patrick pulled off his cock with a _pop!_ And Pete couldn’t help but groan at seeing those pink, candy-perfect lips coated with a glaze of spit and precome. Grinning, Patrick climbed up his body to press a biting, hungry kiss to his lips, murmuring against them. “--’M gonna fuck you so good. Gonna make you sing for me, make you come all over yourself.” Dark glee shone on his face as Pete nodded and babbled _yesyesfuckyes_. Patrick moved down to begin biting down his neck, meandering down Pete’s body biting and sucking and demanding everything with utter precision. “You want it, I know you do. You want me to fuck you so deep you can taste it, stretch you out and make you scream.” 

“God, _yes_ .” Pete’s cock felt like it was going to spontaneously combust, he hadn’t been so turned on in what felt like basically _forever._ He had expected Patrick to take charge but he hadn’t expected this: darkly taunting looks and the attentive, dominating plunder of his body. 

“Where’s your stuff?” He mumbled, and Pete’s pointed at the drawer of his nightstand. Patrick moved to grab the necessary supplies, and Pete took the opportunity to shuck off his underwear all the way and scoot up on the bed, turning so his head was actually pointed the right way. Patrick dropped lube and a condom to the ratty sheets next to him, squirting some on his fingers and pressing them against Pete’s entrance. Blue eyes flicked up to him and Pete nodded, spreading his legs and lightly stroking his cock as Patrick pressed inside, slow and steady. He hissed at the feeling--damn it had been a while since he’d done this!--but he took a breath in through his nose and focused on the way Patrick’s lower lip was bitten between his teeth. His forehead was creased, focusing like Pete was an instrument he was trying to play just right and he couldn’t help but think it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. He kept stroking his cock as Patrick began to thrust gently, moving his fingers and--

“ _Shit.”_ He hissed as calloused fingertips found that bundle of nerves and magic that lit him up from the inside. Patrick grinned at him, humming a steady note as he began to work a third finger in, slowly...demanding and inexorable, but never harsh. Unsurprisingly, he kept an impeccable rhythm, and soon Pete was rolling his hips, trying to time the stroke of his hand on his aching cock with the beat Patrick was making with his body. 

Patrick pulled his fingers free, and Pete felt momentarily lost, untethered. The crinkle-squeak of the condom wrapper punctuated the sudden silence and then Patrick was shimmying his own boxers down his hips and off before pulling on the rubber. He felt an instant of not-quite-fear at the size of the cock bobbing to greet him as Patrick rolled him over, guiding him with gently demanding hands onto all fours. 

“No missionary and kisses?” He teased as he sank low, pressing his ass up and arching his back up, tossing a grin over his shoulder at the younger man. 

“Not when you’ve got an ass like that.” Patrick ground out, his voice surprisingly low and breathless, and Pete felt gratified. A gentle hand settled on his hip and he felt the blunt press of a frankly _large_ cock against his entrance. “Go as slow as you want.” Patrick whispered, and Pete realized he meant for him to press back, to sheath himself at his own pace. He took a deep breath and began to push back, Patrick’s hand gently drawing him close as the flared tip of his cock breached with startling pressure. He hissed a bit at the stretch of it, and Patrick started rubbing gentle circles against the small of his back with his thumbs. “It’s alright, it’s not a race.” 

  
Pete nodded, breathless with the pressure but exhilarating at the rasp in Patrick’s voice. It was so much, his body protesting even as dormant nerve endings woke up and cried for more. He licked his lips as he passed the tipping point of _shitshittoomuch_ and tumbled over into the flickering tongues of desire that promised the perfect glint of starlight if he moved _just right_ …

And then he could feel Patrick’s hips pressed against him, oh so warm and he arched his back more, trying to get closer, deeper. Patrick held him there, impaled and shaking with need for a long moment, his hands slick and sweaty on his hips. And then, slowly, slowly like the movement of tectonic plates, he began to move...gentle thrusts that kept him deep but that had Pete dropping his head to the mattress in a desperate bid for more. Patrick moaned, the first sound he’d heard him make and it went straight to his cock. He fumbled, trying to move to touch himself...but Patrick was growling out _don’t you dare_ and hauling him upright. Crying out as his weight pressed his body down on Patrick’s cock, he gasped in ecstasy as he began thrust harder, hips slapping against him as he drove deeper, deeper. Patrick was holding his body flush to his own, arms twined so he couldn’t touch, he couldn’t reach for the other, all Pete could do was feel the movement of their bodies, the hot press of the cock plumbing his body and lighting fireworks off deep inside him. He realized he was mumbling around desperate cries, jumbled refrains of _yes_ and _more_ and _good, so fucking good_ …

And then Patrick released his arms, burying his hand in Pete’s hair and pulling him back so he could bite deep into the meat of his shoulder as he dropped his hand to-- _fucking finally!--_ fly along the length of Pete’s cock. The pain crested against the press of Patrick’s cock against that bundle of starlight and the ecstasy of the way Patrick’s thumb slid over the leaking tip…

With a cry, he shook in Patrick’s arms as his body locked up, freezing for a moment as the tide of pleasure exploded through him, blindingly perfect completion as his body sang the song Patrick was making with the thrusting of his hips. He jerked and Patrick let him go, guided him down on a controlled fall as he melted to the crumpled sheets. His cock spurted, valiantly shuddering in Patrick’s hand and he knew his mouth was lolled open, knew he was trembling, caught in a rictus of pleasure as it whistled through him...but all he could do was let it happen. Patrick’s thrusts were longer now, deep and hard and it was so much, it was like hot copper was racing through his veins but echoing back the ecstasy as it thundered through him and he felt the simultaneous refrain of _too much!_ and _more!_ echoing through his spent and slagged brain. Then Patrick was growling out a gasped _fuck!_ and pressing deep, slamming his cock against that bundle of volcanic starlight and some distant part of his mind knew he wanted to listen to Patrick come every day for the rest of his life even as his own thoughts flashed white with echoing pleasure. 

Suddenly everything was gone, the hands and the press of the cock deep inside him as Patrick tumbled to the bed, breathing heavy and ragged. Pete pushed his legs straight, flopping to the bed and choosing to ignore the fact that he was basically lying in his own come. Wiping at himself with the sheet, he scooted close to Patrick and nuzzled at his armpit. 

A gentle hand settled on his hair, and Pete took this as a sign. He burrowed close and laid his head on Patrick’s chest, noting the delightful flush. Patrick wasn’t in heat, but he still thought absently that Patrick smelled _amazing_. 

Minutes ( _hours?_ ) later, he pulled the blanket up over them both and sighed into Patrick’s neck. “You’re pretty amazing at that.” 

“Mmmm…” Patrick hummed sleepily into his hair as something warm blossomed in Pete’s chest. “You’re not so bad yourself. Pretty good, in fact.” 

Pete wiggled his hips a little and threw his leg over Patrick, fingertips dusting gentle patterns on his ribs. “Stay?” 

“For a bit.” Patrick yawned and pulled him closer. “I have to be at work early, and I’m not a _pancakes the morning after_ kinda guy.” 

“I agree. Waffles are way better.” Mumbling, he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Patrick’s jaw, feeling safe and sated and warm and perfect. 

Patrick just hummed, and Pete decided that was enough as he slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep…

...that was broken as he came awake with a start. The clock showed 2:55am on his cluttered nightstand as he rolled over towards the noise that had woken him. 

Patrick was laying on his back, body stiff and straight as a board. His hands were clenched by his sides and his head was moving wildly on the pillow, side-to-side movements punctuated by muffled cries making their way out past his clenched teeth. Pete could see his eyes moving furiously under the lids, and he wondered distantly if he was having a seizure. He shuffled to his knees, leaning over Patrick and shaking him gently. 

“Patrick, it’s alright. Hey, wake up, c’mon babe, it’s not real, it’s--”

With a gasp, Patrick’s eyes shot open to reveal panicked, tear-shot blue eyes. He shook Pete off, rolling over to sit up and curl into himself, breathing fast and hard in a way Pete knew all too well. 

“Hey, hey…” Pete rubbed soft circles on his back, tucking sweat-dampened strands of his hair behind Patrick’s ear and murmuring lowly. “It’s alright, it was just a dream. I’m right here, you’re okay.” 

The younger man took a shuddering breath, shaking his head twice with a huff. “I’d--I’d better go.” He mumbled, shrugging off Pete’s hand and standing, grabbing his pants off the floor and struggling to put them on in the darkness. 

“Dude, it’s like...the middle of the night. Stay, c’mon it’s gotta be fucking freezing out there.” Pete looked out the window. “Look, its fucking snowing, just--”

“No, it’s fine.” The other pulled on his hat, sitting down on the bed to pull on his chucks. “I have to work in the morning anyways.” Looking over at Pete now fully dressed, he gave him a small, wry grin. “Sorry I woke you.” Patrick reached out and pulled at his jaw, meeting his lips for a warm, languorous kiss. Pete felt like he was melting into it, it was everything warm and gentle--the feeling of midnight kisses and arms wrapped around your waist under down blankets. But then Patrick was standing and grabbing his jacket from the ground...and his front door was shutting with a slam. 

In a daze, Pete got up to turn the bolt home, and when he came back to the bed he realized how empty it looked. A landscape of rumpled sheets and mounds of pillows stretched out in front of him, and he laid down with a sigh. Pulling the blankets up and tucking them under his chin, he stared at the snow falling silently outside the window until dawn.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a day late--had company over this weekend and time got away with me. I hope you enjoy!!!

The band was _horrible_. Pete strongly considered covering his ears, but that was several orders of magnitude ruder than he was willing to be. He was a de-facto band groupie, after all...and bands supported each other. Even if this band didn’t know how to tune their guitars or how microphones worked...it was his duty to rock on regardless. Glancing at the looks on the rest of the _Patterson_ guys scattered through the audience, he saw his own pain reflected back at him. He wondered if eardrums really could bleed. 

Afterwards, they all went to Viccino’s pizza and drowned themselves in greasy pie and attempted to come up with the funniest reason that the band sounded like a herd of dolphins being murdered. Pete was sandwiched between Patrick and Jonathan, _Patterson_ ’s bass player, and he spent half the evening talking about gear and comparing favorite songs with him. Between everything, Patrick kept letting his hand drift from the table to run his fingers on the skin just above Pete’s waistband, or creep along his leg. Pete grinned at him, batting his lashes and hoping that it looked sexy, not like he had something in his eyes. 

They ended up at Pete’s apartment, with Patrick attempting to turn him into molten lava. He was pressing biting kisses to the wreath of thorns around his neck, his hand running over Pete’s cock that was still trapped within his boxers. Patrick continued down, pausing to lavish attention on his nipples until they were hard and pebbled and aching with need. 

“‘Trick, you’re--” He groaned, throwing his head back and shuddering as Patrick blew out his hot breath onto his still-covered cock. “--you’re fucking killing me, I swear…”

“Mmmm.” Patrick hummed darkly, biting at his waistband and pulling it down with his teeth a bit, before giving up and using his hands to push the offending piece of clothing down his hips. “Least I can do is make sure you die a happy man then.” He sucked Pete’s cock down in one deep motion, bobbing his head and swirling his tongue in ways Pete wasn’t sure normal humans should be capable of...but he was grateful. Patrick hummed again, and the vibrations made something unfurl in his stomach that made something needy unfurl deep inside. 

“I’m gonna--” He gasped, trying to push Patrick off but blue eyes flashed up to him as Patrick shook his head, taking him deeper...and that was it, he was coming with a cry. His hips worked and he could feel the head of his cock nudging the back of Patrick’s throat. With barely a sputter, Patrick lapped at him before crawling up his body to capture Pete’s mouth in a bruising kiss. His hand was flying over his own cock, rutting against Pete’s spent one as he kissed him like he needed it to breathe and came gasping over them both. 

Patrick dropped his head to Pete’s shoulder, mouthing at his neck as he hummed and tumbled to the bed. Blowing hair from his eyes, he chuckled a bit and poked at Pete. “You taste good.” 

“Shut up unless you want me to jump you again.” Pete groaned as he grabbed his shirt from the floor and wiped away the cooling mess on his stomach. He dropped it off the side of the bed and sighed, reaching out to find Patrick’s fingers and twining them together. His heart skipped a beat when Patrick squeezed them and he felt joy explode in his heart at the tiny gesture.

“What’s your favorite memory?”

“Like, from being a kid?” Patrick’s eyes stayed closed and Pete reflected this was a rare moment to see him close to something like peace. 

“Yeah. Like mine is when I was four or five, we went to this Christmas neighborhood thing with all the houses decorated with like a billion lights. We walked all around and it had just snowed so it felt like we were in a snow globe. My parents had gotten hot chocolate and I just remember holding my mom’s hand and literally feeling like magic was real.” 

“Mmmm...that sounds nice.” Patrick demurred, eyes opening to stare at the ceiling. His brows furrowed and Pete felt like he could see the gears whirring in his brain. 

“Wasn’t a trick question.” Pete chuckled a bit. “Or is this when you reveal a tortured childhood and you have no happy memories and I feel like an asshole?” 

“I didn’t sleep in a cupboard under the stairs, thanks very much.” Patrick snorted, running his hand through his hair and pushing it off his forehead. “I think it was when I got my first guitar. It was my 11th birthday, and my parents got me one that was this weird forest green, but I loved it. I literally played the frets off.” He pursed his lips. “The last Christmas before they split up they got me a full-size Fender.” 

“Do you still have it?” Pete asked, sensing this was something prickly, something close to some of Patrick’s deeper feelings. 

“Yeah. I wrote my first song on it, basically spent every hour I wasn’t in school playing it.” A gentle smile blossomed across Patrick’s lips. “It was basically my first love.” 

“When did you switch to drums?” Pete asked, brushing patterns against the smooth skin of Patrick’s ribs. 

“I mean. It wasn’t so much that I switched, more like I just _added_ onto it. After we moved, the music teacher at Glenbrook was super cool and let me fool around on whatever he had after school.”

“Did you have Mr. Berger?” 

“Yeah.” Patrick shifted and twisted his arm up under the pillow. “He was the one who showed me how to play a tuba.” 

“You play the _tuba?”_ Pete rolled to his stomach to look down at his bedmate. “For real?” 

“I _can_ play it. Doesn’t mean I like, have one sitting in the corner at home.” Patrick snorted and Pete flopped back to the bed and bunched the pillow under his chin. 

“So, since we’re on the topic of tuba’s—“ he gave a significant glance at Patrick’s softening but still impressive cock, “—what are we like, doing?” 

“Right now? Recovering from some fantastic orgasms. Why, did you want to go run a marathon or something?” Patrick shot him a wry glance. “In case you hadn’t figured it out, running isn’t my thing.” 

“No, I mean--like you and me.” He traced the curve of Patrick’s shoulder with a gentle touch and mentally crossed his fingers. Patrick turned to look at him with pursed lips and a bland expression. 

“Fucking? I thought that was pretty obvious.” 

“Holy shit, are you intentionally being dense? I mean like...are we a thing?” Pete rolled to his stomach and looked down at Patrick, one part of his mind reveling in the way his cheeks were still flushed the barest hint of pink. 

“Do we get to make matching friendship bracelets if I say yes?” Patrick smirked and tucked his hands behind his head. “Or are you going to TP my apartment building if I don’t send you a valentine?” 

“Technically, I don’t even know where your apartment is…” Grumbled Pete, dropping down to blow a raspberry on Patrick’s chest. He was interrupted from his attempts to blow a second by the trilling sound of a phone ringing shrilly. 

Patrick rolled up and away, fishing for his pants on the floor and pulling his phone free. “Hello?” 

The tinny sound of second-hand phone conversation floated halfway to Pete, but it was too indistinct to make out. He resorted to tracing patterns on the skin of Patrick’s lower back, drawing dicks and balls and laughing to himself. But then Patrick hung up and rolled to his feet. 

“Jonathan’s battery is dead and he needs a jump.” He shrugged his shirt on and Pete gave his best pout. 

“Why are you always leaving me alone in an empty bed? I’m going to start feeling unappreciated.” 

“Oh God no, and what would we do then?” Patrick snorted as he slipped on his vans and gave Pete a patronizing look before swooping in and grabbing a handful of his ass and shaking him gently as he pretended to bite at his ear. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Wentz.” 

“Want me to come with you?” He rolled to his side of the bed. “I’m total shit at cars but I can hold a flashlight.” He reached down to grab his shirt, then crinkled his nose when he remembered that it was currently covered in both of their bodily fluids.

“No it’s fine, it’s just a jump.” Patrick grabbed the shirt from him and threw it in Pete’s overfull hamper. “I’ll see you Saturday for the show, yeah?” 

“Ooookay.” Pete pulled on his boxers and shuffled behind Patrick, who was winding his scarf around his neck. “If I don’t die of missing you before then.” 

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” Patrick grinned and ran a finger down his cloth-ensconced dick. It still made him shiver. “See you later.” 

And the door slammed shut behind him.

~//~

He grinned at the look of intense concentration on Patrick’s face as he considered the pile of CD’s he had pulled from Pete’s glovebox. 

“So what’s wrong with your car, again?” 

“Timing belt and something else. I don’t know, my mom’s new husband told me and I didn’t pay attention.” He held up a battered _Saves the Day_ CD. “I’m honestly fucking impressed you have this, this is like, from before they were a thing.” 

“It’s my second favorite album of theirs.” Pete hit the _eject_ button on the battered stereo, pulling the disk free and handing it to Patrick. “Put it in, do it.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Patrick smirked at him, sliding it in and grinning widely at the Friday night traffic stretching out ahead of them. “Oh, fuck yes….so good.” He turned the sound up until it was blasting muddy and amazing out of Pete’s dying speakers, and they rocked in contented peace for a couple miles. “Anyways, thanks for driving me. Can’t believe it’s the week of fucking car problems apparently.” 

“No worries,” Pete turned the stereo down a couple notches as they pulled off the onramp. “I’ve been wanting to play the new Super Mario, so it works out great. Plus--” He ran his fingers up the side of Patrick’s thigh, lucious in faded denim, “--I get to hang with my favorite guy.” 

“Mmmmmhmmm.” Patrick drummed his fingers on his knees in time with the song. “Lucky you.” 

“What, you don’t think you’re my favorite? Not what my coworker Ryan would say. I basically talk about you nonstop all day at work. I think he officially hates you just because he’s sick of hearing your name.” 

“Adorable.” Patrick snorted as Pete pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. He pushed open the car door and stood up, folding the seat forward to grab the pizza’s from the backseat. “Don’t let me forget to get my stupid fucking Best Buy shirt from your car. I need it for work tomorrow.” 

“Oh I won’t forget.” Pete waggled his eyebrows at him suggestively. I’m hoping you’ll wear it while you take advantage of me. Say sexy tech things to me, talk to me about motherboards and shit.” 

“God, that’s disgusting.” Patrick glared as Pete held the door open. “I can feel my dick crawling back up inside my body.” 

“Hot.” Pete laughed, high fiving Joe as he emerged from the living room in a puff of smoke. “Joe Troh! You ready to get the shit beaten out of you by a Mario Cart god??” 

“That’ll happen when the El doesn’t smell like piss.” Joe smirked and grabbed the pizzas. “Paper plates are next to the fridge, c’mon in and get comfy.”

The next few hours was full of laughter, curses, Patrick half-playfully punching him in the stomach when he _definitely_ cheated, and cheese-tinged burps. Joe was telling a story about his roommate’s _loud_ sexcapades with this week’s girlfriend, and afterwards Pete fixed him with a look.

“Have you ever been to Patrick’s apartment?” 

“Uhh.” Joe squinted at the TV as he tried a combo, and Pete pretended to not see Patrick glaring at him. “Yeah, I mean...we all helped him move in, so I saw it when it was just boxes and a really shitty bean bag.”

“That bean bag is the most comfortable thing on the planet, _thank you very much_.” Patrick growled, still glaring at Pete. 

  
“So he hasn’t ever like, invited you over for like...root beers and pizza? Star Wars movie marathons?” 

“I guess not?” Joe shrugged, running his hand through his curly mop and tucking it behind his ear. “I dunno. I’d guess it’s because he still has no furniture cause he spends all his money on records and gear and he’s ashamed to have people sit on the floor.”

“Holy shit, which is a perfectly good way to spend money! What is this, twenty apartment questions? Fucking leave it be!” Patrick bit out, glaring full force at them both as he stomped from the living room. 

Joe rolled his head lazily to look up at Pete. “Well, great. Now he’s in _a mood_.” 

“I’ll go talk to him.” Pete stood up, rolling his shoulders back and ignoring Joe’s deadpan _your funeral._ He headed in the direction Patrick had stomped...checking the kitchen before hearing water running from behind the only closed door in the hallway. He leaned against the opposite wall, fiddling with his sidekick and deleting some old text messages while he waited. The door creaked open and Patrick came schlepping out, dragging his feet like they were heavy. 

“Hey, ‘Trick, I--”

“ _Holy fucking shit!”_ Patrick jumped a foot in the air, hands held up defensively for a moment, before he recovered and glared, biting words out like they tasted sour. “Quit fucking sneaking up on me, its fucking obnoxious!” 

“I wasn’t _sneaking_ , shit! I was literally standing still and you freaked the fuck out.” Pete argued back, irritation skittering down his spine and weeks of little frustrations all melting together into a hot ball in his stomach. “What’s your fucking deal dude? Why do you get so upset when I bring up your apartment? You’ve seen mine fifty times, it’s nothing to write home about but I don’t care!” 

“Why do _you_ keep bringing it up!? It’s stupid, its just a place I fucking sleep and store my gear, why is it such a big fucking deal to _you?”_ Patrick fired back and Pete could feel his fists clenching in anger. 

  
“Because it’s _yours_ and its part of you and I’m into that, because I’m fucking _into you_ , dumbass!” 

“Oh just get _fucked_.” Patrick pushed past him, heading to the kitchen and filling a glass with water from the sink. He took a deep drink and smacked his lips, as if he was daring Pete to notice them wet and plump. He refused to take the bait. 

“While we’re fucking yelling, what the hell is with your insane fight-or-flight response? Did you get jumped recently or something? Like I’m half afraid you’re going to break my nose if I sneeze when I’m sitting next to you!” 

“ _As if_ I’d let someone fucking jump me.” Patrick’s lips pressed together in a thin line as he slammed the glass on the tile countertop. “Maybe you shouldn’t sit so close then if you’re fucking afraid, pussy.” 

“Call me a pussy again, you fucking--” 

“Whooooooaaaaa.” Joe slid into the kitchen, wobbling a bit as his sock-covered feet slid on the linoleum, but holding his hands up between them both. “No throwing punches in the kitchen. I don’t need any _more_ holes in the fucking cabinets.” 

“Like you give a shit.” Patrick spat back, grabbing his coat from the hook and pulling it on as he stomped out the front door. It slammed shut with a rush of cold air and Pete raised his eyebrows. 

“He does realize that he has no car, and the keys are in my pocket, right?” He fished them out from his hoodie and spun them around his finger a few times, looking at Joe with some concern starting to cool the angry flush.

Joe just shrugged and headed back to the living room, shrugging. “It’s usually better to just let him walk it off when he’s pissed. It’s basically impossible to freeze to death when you’re boiling with rage, after all.”   
  


“True.” Pete picked up his controller as Joe started the game back up, trying not to think about the fury in Patrick’s eyes that almost--but not quite--covered something that looked like fear. But he couldn’t help but play it over and over in his mind as he slid down tubes and collected coins, hopping easily through obstacles. If only navigating the minefield of his maybe-boyfriend’s temper and list of sore subjects was as easy as avoiding blue shells. 

  
  



End file.
